How terrible, OP.
But then when people post things like your other contribution, we must wonder what your actual motives and level of veracity are;
My cat was killed I don't know what to say. I'm totally devastated. My furbaby has been in our family for just over ten years and he was taken from us. He was a perfect, chatty, playful Siamese and a major support for me psychologically. I struggled with eating disorders (I was about 150 pounds overweight), and self-loathing from childhood abuse and trauma. I also know who did it. My neighbor's have an adopted son, and he's a little psychopath. He shoots squirrels with BB guns, and plays violent, misogynistic music all day. We found our cat in the garden - he had been doused in boiling oil, and he was screaming in agony. His tail had been severed, too. The oil, which I think was from a deep fryer, had burned off half his fur and it looked like his face had melted. His eyes were all blistered over, and he was yowling and screaming in pain. I will never forget that sounds until the day I die. When I saw him, I passed out. By the time I came to my husband had already had him put to sleep.
Now we don't know what to do with the neighbor's kid. We didn't see him do it, but I'm sure it was him. We're adoptive parents of children of color ourselves and we don't want to step into a hornet's nest here, but I don't think we can just let this go. I'm just too devastated to talk to anyone. I'm WFH, but I haven't been workin at all. I'm comfort eating, which done ruined my diet, and drinking lots of Bailey's. I often break out into uncontrollable, howling sobs. I haven't showered in a week. I'm totally destroyed and I want to join my beloved friend in death.
We called the police, but without no evidence they say they can't do nothing.
Growing up gay in the rural Midwest I know what you're thinkin, but it wasn't half as bad as some of you might expect. You see, the Great Plains is an unforgivin country. A man must do what he must just to survive. It don't matter if he's gay or not. Ranch work is hard and wears you down. Not much time for leisure except for fightin and drinkin. I done growed up in Nebraska in the 70s. My daddy was a cattleman. Came from a long line of ranchers., like his daddy and his granddaddy before. I guess I figured I was queer when I was eight or so. Didn't want nothing to do with cooze, but loved to watch the shirtless Chicano farmhands get lathered up with sweat and dust. Now people out West are more perceptive than a lot of folks might guess. They knew what was goin on. If you is effeminate, or likes to do unmasculine things, then you is queer. They smell it on you like you got a scent or something. My daddy knew early on. I wanted to help my mama (fat, gross, landwhale who wasn't givin him any no more) to do the cookin. That enraged him. He knew I was queer. My brother was the same, too. He had two faggots in the household. He started doin it to me when I was 8. No lube or forewarnin. He just worked his huge, beercan thick cheesy cock up my boypussy and dropped his load. This was when I got home from school. Then he beat me with the butt of his gun until I done passed out. He was a huge man - 6'3" and 280 pounds of pure beef and muscle. He had a full handlebar moustache, and biceps that was thicker than my thighs. He smelled of sweat and leather and tobacco.
This began to happen often. Beatings and assaults was a daily part of my life. He'd always get chubbed when watchin the wrasslin or the rode on the TV, so I knew that was when it was gonna happen. He'd grab me, his breath stinkin of whiskey, pull his cock out of his old, faded Levi's, and work it all the way up my butt while I screamed and begged him to stop. My puny, inferior, faggot cocklet got so fuckin hard on account of all the masc pheromones in the air, [more]
